


little shadow

by inlemoon



Category: The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3126635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlemoon/pseuds/inlemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he never stopped to question why her laugh was so familiar. Ocarina of Time. Link and Sheik/Zelda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Link asks that if they are going to do this, she take off _everything_. So Sheik obliges, starting at her taped toes, coming to stand bare before him, giving him one fleeting flash of tanned skin, not a shred of cloth on her lithe form. As she reaches for her cowl, giddiness rises in his eyes; her heart beats harder at the realization that it’s her face he’s wanted to see the most.

She extinguishes the lights as the last scrap falls, cloaking the room in pitch-black darkness. Candles that burned are now snuffed, the smoke’s curls invisible, acrid smell hanging in their nostrils. The air’s sticky fingers caress their throats, blood pulses its thick staccato through their necks. He grumbles loudly _(Lovers are supposed to see each other!)_ , but gropes through the dark to find her, stumbling gracelessly and pressing his lips to hers, until he is naked and they are spread across the squeaking spring bed lining the wall.

She’s happy that he says nothing more, even if he doesn’t understand. He seems to regard her as some amusing crimson-eyed enigma. His hands brush over all her more intimate spots and she's melted into him soon after.

_“Hero.”_

She hisses it through gritted teeth as she slides down slowly onto his hips, one hand pressed steady against the wall, red eyes rolling when he smirks up at her.  He stretches beneath her other hand as she balances, face open and mischievous in a way she’s never quite seen before--she is enthralled by it.

 _He doesn't know that I can see him_ , she thinks as he settles into her.  And as he pulls her up and down, she doesn’t think she’ll tell him. Perhaps it’s deceptive, oh; perhaps it’s wrong that she can see each twitch of his mouth and twist of his face, that she can savor each honest expression when he can’t see a thing of her own. Perhaps it is wicked, but isn't this the way it must be?

His hands slide to swell of her bottom, grasping supple muscle, rocking her slowly, grinding deep against her slick walls and rolling hips. Each time she falls towards him, she dips her face to his, raining open-mouthed kisses that leave them both breathless. They’re sensuous and slow and his tongue _feels so good_ in her mouth and she can see by his open- wonder expression that he's just as aroused. He's perfect, honestly, so much more truthful than she’ll ever be.

She combs her finger through the sweat-soaked blonde hair splayed about the pillow, skims his damp forehead and curls the tangled locks into her palm. His exposed neck is white and unblemished; she is determined to change that _right now_ and his pulse races under her teeth when she tugs his head sideways and bites, _hard._

They’re alike and different all at once. His skin is pale to her dark tan, his mouth is fuller than her thin lips. But they’re each adorned with wild golden curls between their legs, both corded with slender muscles. His hips are strong but slim, as are hers--narrow and skinnier than most women, but he doesn’t seem to care. It’s not like he can see. His chest swells with strength he’s built from swordplay. Hers swells with breasts bound away easily. He teases all of her, worships the subtle flares of her body, drawing out long, low moans with thick palms, and she couldn’t feel more alive as when each stretch to fit his hard length again and again and again and _again_.

Mixed sweat pools on his stomach. His fingers are careful, just so assuredly _gentle_ she reels and keens and her mind spirals with thought. It was long ago when she fell for him, wasn't it? Childish infatuation turned into seven years of anticipation, a deep, aching longing of the heart that would make her physically hurt when she thought on it. And now, her back arched above him, clutching whatever her desperate fingers find, it’s never been more apparent. Goddesses above, she’s wanted him, and he doesn't even know the truth, and now, she wasn't sure he’d never know at all.

He’ll never know how much she loves him.

The fantasies are erotic and unsettling, beautiful and oh-so-filled with lies, flying through her mind no matter how hard she tries to stop them. It’s just that these little furrows of his brows are hers. Outside of this bedroom, every evil he slays are all hers. The raised, red marks on his neck are her work, and each temple he cleanses, each step he makes towards home and peace, all are done for her sake and her sake alone. She’s been denied so many things, it _must_ be hers. His hands pinch and squeeze so thoughtfully, lingering and unhurried. Each breath that escapes him, _Sheik, oh Sheik_ , each note of her name on his tongue,  _my dark, my little shadow, my Sheik_ , each deep rumble through his chest, they are hers, and hers alone, no one else’s, hers alone, _my little shadow, my Sheik_ …

“Oh fucking _gods_ …” she growls, mind hazing over as his hands lift her hips lightly and bring her back down again. The cleft between her thighs burns, heat to rising from deep within her core, pooling in her abdomen, spreading to every muscle.

“You’re lovely,” he whispers, and it pulls her back to reality.

“You can’t see,” she bites out, gnawing her lip, almost admitting that forbidden secret clawing at the back of her head. But he only smirks as if she’s wrong and ghosts his fingers along her sensitive thighs, strokes circles into her mons, carries her far too far over the edge and the fact that she shouldn’t be there makes it even harder to run away.

“I don’t have to see to know.” His words are poised, certain. Oh gods, but what if he could see me? _Oh, if he could know, if only he could know. He’ll never know._

His hands travel up her stomach to lightly cup her slight chest and her thoughts turn yet again. She’ll never be as full or lush as his farm girl, and she has half a mind to hotly tell him just that, so he should just stop now, until he moves again and thoughts flee altogether. He’s inside of her, so deep and strong, and his hands leave trails of flame when they lift to and from her skin. Her spine sags and she groans, loud and lengthy from her throat, head tilted down, as he toys with the centers.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she snaps, balancing small palms against sturdy muscle. He smirks again, still moving slowly, running languid, merciless hands across her nipples until she writhes.

She’s hanging boneless over him, embarrassed at her inelegance. His smirk just seems to widen and she accepts it, finally; the dark has made no difference. Link has wanted her this entire time, curious and happy, and even in the dark he's looking right at her, not the other way around. His hands tell him everything, are everywhere, all over her, and when his fingertips graze her cheeks, her heart beats even faster  _He knows what I look like now_ , she thinks irrationally and sweet liquid arousal rushes to her heart and her rocking becomes frantic against him, _he knows_ everything.

The friction edges them both and at her frenzied pace, he shifts up, pressing her back against the cool wall. It jolts against the suffocating air and oh _goddess_ she is his, he is not hers, he never was and never will be except for maybe now, she is _in his bed_ and she is _his_. A damp, hot, open mouth sucks across her flat breasts and she can’t breathe as he pulls himself into her, thrusts harder and deeper and the stars in her eyes explode through the dark. Her legs wrap him and un-taped fingers dig into his shoulders as his own press into the backs of her thighs.

“Little shadow,” he whispers as she gasps and reels, _never say my name_ , as she pulls away with a wet sound that shivers from ear to toe, “why do you hide this?” His rough hand sweeps along the curve of her slippery back, gesturing across the whole of her body. “You shouldn’t.”

She arches against his words. It’s intense, the slow orgasm rolling through her. She cannot see. _Oh gods_ , she can’t help but think as blindness overtakes her, _if only_. She rides him _so hard_ , and it’s the only thing her mind can process. _If only. If only._


	2. Wet

Wet. It’s all so wet. It’s all wet drips down Sheik’s jellied thighs, it’s all wet trails behind her trembling knees. It’s wet and it’s so fucking _hot in here_ and she can’t breathe over her cowl or the lavender incense smoking up the orange-glow room.

Link’s hand is splayed between her shoulder blades and the cloth that she’s biting is wet, soaked through with spit to muffle scratching wails. The fabric smacks in her mouth when she nips it again. His hand smacks her ass and even the cowl can’t stop it. When did he fucking _learn_ this? She might send a thank-you card to Malon, if she could ever get over her jealousy. Then again, if he fucks his farm-girl to learn to fuck his Sheikah, she’ll probably just send him back. Unless he hasn’t fucked the farm-girl at all.

“Like it?” he whispers, wet tongue sliding down her long, flushed ear.

“Fucking _harder_ ,” she snaps, pushing back onto his wet cock like some kind of desperate… _little_ …..“ _Ngh_!” He pulls back, “I said fucking _harder_!”

The window she’s facing steams, their reflection fogs over. She doesn’t care if her breasts are pushed against the glass. She couldn’t even bring herself to get rid of the candlelight before stripping and bending and hissing like a snake. Too many fucking years without him                   right              where            he                    was                    now                         and goddamnit he’d better fuck her until she lost it.

Wet. Wet down her thighs, down to her knees. Sweat down her back, wet down to her feet. His cock where it should have been all this damn while. His hands are wet and slick across her breasts, not bothering to tease. He knows better this time.

He wins again, smirks. She moans his name, hard. He flips her and comes hot-wet between pushed breasts, pools on her neck and drips down the sides. He’d ripped the cowl off. His palm had covered her face and his eyes had clenched shut and away. His fingers smelled like her salt. He finished, turned in respect.

“Next time, in the dark, I’ll come on your face,” he shrugs. Sheik snaps her fingers, and the candlelight is gone.


	3. If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musings after a battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Some romance! Some longing! Some introspective moments!

The curve of his cheek is delicate, and you run a taped finger across the bone. There are weeping burns that will surely scar, but you don’t think it makes him less handsome. You think it looks good, a tiny symbol of a much larger sacrifice. You move to his lip, noticing for the first time that the top is a little fuller than the bottom. And you wonder why you hadn’t noticed before.

He curls into your touch and his eyes flutter open, and you marvel at the brightness of the blue. He’d recognized you, knew you’d be here, that you’d tend the wounds he’d earned from the dragon. They cover him and he’d probably be dead, except you saved him. He’d given all of his strength to kill Volvagia, throwing himself to the fires, knowing you’d be there afterwards. He’s come to expect you, really, that you’ll show up just when he needs you the most.

You’re the hero that saves the Hero, the shadow he retreats within. You’re his escape from a world that’s killed his childhood and burned him alive, the love his hands reach for when they’ve nothing else to grasp. You are unsung in this tale and they’ll never know your name, never know what you are to him, never know how much he needs you.

You want nothing more than to kiss him, to press your lips to his and claim them for yourself, but you’d have to take off your wraps. And if you take off your wraps, he’ll have to close his eyes, and you’ve decided they’re too blue to ever shut again.

The logic of this love is unfair, you decide. It’s unfair that you must exchange eyes for lips and lips for eyes, that you must barter one for the other, never able to have both as _normal_ lovers do. Yearning floods your chest and you vow that if he _ever_ sees your face, you’ll never close your eyes, not even to blink. You think it must be the most intimate thing in the world, to look and touch and kiss and connect all at once.

And maybe one day he’ll be able to laugh at you, poke fun at you, because you never shut them, too enraptured to look away. Maybe one day you’ll be able to take advantage of the things other lovers carelessly throw to the dark. Maybe one day you’ll be able to forget how connected you truly are, to fall into arguments and petty fights, to scream bloody hellhounds onto the other, to slam doors and throw vases and storm into the night. Maybe one day you’ll have other lover’s luxuries but for now, you only have stolen moments when he lays half-dead in your arms. Stolen moments where you must exchange lips for eyes, or eyes for lips, where you must bargain away the truth for camaraderie and lies for who you are inside.

But for now, your connections to him are broken, pieces of a prophecy scattered across temples and sages and barren lands once lush with life. You can only give him little things, little isolated moments dropped along the trail of his quest. Your hands, they give him song. Your voice, it gives him guidance. Your eyes give him lies, so many blood-red lies, when he clings to you as he does now. And they give him despair-filled truth of the waste laid to your kingdom, the truth he fights so hard to banish. The truth that leaves him bloody and half-broken, sprawled across your lap, as the potions take effect.

Your skin, it gives him pleasure, sometimes. It gives him a place to rest, and he fits into you so perfectly, you can feel and hear and know everything inside. In the dark, when you kiss him, when you can see him and he cannot see you, you almost pretend that he _knows_. When his hands press fists into your palms, his forehead lays flush to yours, his eyes clench shut and his body rocks so _slowly_ within, you only wish he’ll open them. Because when he opens them you can almost pretend he’s looking right into yours, that he’s kissing you and watching you all at once, that you are the kind of lovers love was created to serve.

At this moment, you don’t kiss him. Your fingers touch his hair, dirty and matted and a little smelly. His fairy rests on your shoulder and she doesn’t seem to mind you there, watching over him, covering him with the darkness of your shadow. It cloaks him from those who will kill him, heals him until he must emerge to the light again.

And you know that your love is not the sort of love that’s meant to be. It is woven with lies and deceit and it will come crashing down. You don’t know how something that feels so pure can look so filthy, how something dying before it blossoms can be so beautiful, how something so based on deception can be so true.

 _If only_ , you think as you trace your hand along his scarred collarbone, _if only._

The shroud of pain begins to lift from his eyes, and you know the potions are working. He remained stocked up, at least, and you can picture how he must have stumbled from the dragon’s lair, fumbling for the bottle, struggling to pull the cork with his teeth and collapsing right where he knew you’d find him.

Suddenly, he pulls you down and presses his lips to the cloth. You move on instinct, shifting your hands to cradle both cheeks, pressing further down onto his mouth. Perhaps if you kiss hard enough, the disguise will disappear. Perhaps if you kiss hard enough, these wraps will melt away, and you’ll feel the skin-on-skin touch of his lips. You’ll kiss him until you and he are both swollen with need, you’ll stare straight into his eyes when he makes love to you, and he’ll look right back. And _when_ he looks back, he’ll never look away. And maybe you’ll be the one to tease him for never closing his eyes, the one to be so careless with the sacredness of love.

But there are layers of linen between you and he, and layers of lies even thicker. So your lips do not touch skin and your eyes slide shut in retribution. They close out everything but the pressure of his kiss, until you feel him slacken in your quiet embrace. He’s falling asleep, the excruciating pain slowly leaving his body, murmuring something about a pack of gear.

You locate the bedroll he’d dumped outside of the crater, where he knew you’d find it, where he’d planned for his own rescue. And as you ease him in, pulling extra potion out and instructing his fairy to make sure he drinks, you become unraveled, too. Your hand brushes his face once more and you wish for nothing more than to curl into his side, unmasked and free to bask within his light.

You coil into your thoughts instead. They’re intense, the fast tears rolling through you. _Oh gods_ , you can’t help but think as they wash across your face, _if only_. And as you leave him there to rest, and pull away from his cheek as he shifts about the pillow, it is the only thing your mind can process. _If only. If only._


	4. Oh

 

Truth of it was, they knew what it wasn't. They knew it was always more than sex, that it was always at least carnal need blended into emotion, or some desperate groping for human connection. Or maybe it was crueler. Maybe heroes of a dying world are made to seek comfort from the shadows, forced to find connection in those places straddling light and dark. It seems that shadow is all he really knows, anyway; the hungry reach of his hands as they delve into shade-lined alleys, and the bite of her teeth on his bones when Sheik comes to him again.

Tonight, it is dark, and Link lies in the bed, covered by thin white sheets. His burns are better but certainly unhealed, blistered thighs and arms still red. The skin is tight and when he tries to stretch his arms around her, it hurts too much. She'd swooped from the window like some red-eyed bat on a starless night, her clothes the flutter of her wings. Keen vision and silent cat-soles led her to stand over him, tongue clicking and- he is sure- head shaking.

"Were the Rupees so worth it?" Sheik's voice sings through the dark and his stomach leaps.

He groans as her weight dips the bed. Testing the limits of his Goron tunic for the orange gems might not have been his best idea.

Still, as Sheik slides next to him, perhaps it isn't so bad. She's warm, and it always surprises him how nice her skin feels when it rubs across his, textured but. And even if he cannot see he knows the tanned is flushed with dusty rose. His own skin begins to inflame with something besides his burns and he seeks her hand, weaving her slim fingers through his own.

He can't see a thing, and it's so enthralling when she drops a kiss to his lips, sending a thrill through his chest. Then she rustles through her knapsack, part of his mind giddy; her voice cuts the black air, musical and a little too low, as if pitched to hide its timbre.

"Nothing so exciting. Only a poultice to soothe." Well, that's just as good of a feeling, even if it's a different sort of pleasure. He should have packed spare potion, one more bottle and he'd be healed.

Mortar scrapes pestle, the smell of green clay clouds thickly in his senses. And then it's cool, his thighs stretching, opening for her hands to slide over his injuries. Burns hurt more than he'd realized.

She's nearly bare and even through is pain, her proximity to his groin sends blood rushing down. More blood rushes when lips press a quick kiss to the tip of his cock, and dirty thoughts begin to rush through his mind- of her staying between his legs, dipping her head and kissing his length until he fills her mouth, or gently straddling him like she did their first time, letting him roll against her slick walls. He groans and shifts but she's swift, moving up to sit on his belly, laughter falling between them.

"Couldn't resist." His heart soars even when he groans again; it's more than she's ever spoken before. Last time, she'd given nothing but barked commands to fuck her, before yanking her clothes back on and stumbling out the window, even though he'd been able to see the longing for more, deep in her red eyes.

" _Oh_."

The word slides out as her hands find the scorches on his arms and he's forgotten about his cock for once.

" _Oh_."

 _Oh_ , it feels good.

 _Oh_ , she could do that forever and he'd be satisfied.

 _Oh,_ why was he such a reckless idiot, charging into lava pits with their sizzling pools and sparking rocks.

 _Oh,_ she feels good. Her strong, slim legs fall about his sides. He loves her body, thin and wiry and corded with energy. Hands lightly knead muscle that is not burned.

 _"Oh,"_ he moans, locked-away tension melting to her touch, "please, don't stop…"

"So that's what it takes to make you beg," she sasses, matter-of-fact, almost bemused. Hands push a little harder, a little deeper, still covered in thick clay.

"So getting burned is what it takes to make you talk."

Silence, but the hands are still there, so it's all right for now.

Sheik crawls up his body, avoiding raw flesh, sits on his chest with a half-naked bottom. She's so strong but so light, so graceful, so…soft. Like she's some warrior with a princess beneath. A smile brushes his lips and Link knows he must look a righteous mess- splotched with clay, hair caked in soot, covered in healing burns, nude and vulnerable and three-fourths hard with a stupid grin across chapped skin.

"Kiss me again," he breathes, not expecting her to oblige. When she does, his heart soars. She's his little shadow, his little shade, his protector. She's so dangerous and something inside of him knows that he'd be smart to avoid her, but…she takes care of him. She follows him, watches over him, makes him feel safe. And he's never known anyone quite so powerful before- he loved Saria and Navi, but this was different. It was intense. It was…adult. Not just the sex, but the ways they seemed to talk without talking, the ways they seemed to just know, the ways they seemed to just fall into place with the other.

Pink lips (he _knows_ they must be pink) press to his again, and a tongue parts them open.

 _Oh,_ she tastes good, like sugar and cinnamon.

The skin of his arms is looser now, all thanks to her herbs and clay. And before he can think better, he drags her hips to his mouth, slipping a finger, sliding cloth to the side.

"What are- _oh_ …"

 _Thanking you_ , he thinks.

His tongue slides into her core, carefully and gently, exploring and tasting. It's the best thing he's savored, to slowly feel her arousal grow on his tongue, to feel it drip down his chin. And oh, how good it feels when her legs relax and lower to his face and she sinks with a growl- oh yes, she growled- when his hands cup her bum. Her fingers are still covered in herbs but they weave through his hair. He can't say that he minds, it's dirty anyway.

Because he knows, oh how he knows, that she takes so little to come unraveled. That the shadow craves him as much as he craves her, if not more. And that she'll never speak much and he'll never see her face but he can destroy her to an utter mess with just a bit of affection. He sucks along her clit, licks her walls until she's clean, and shifts his hands to move her up and down along his lips. Breathing doesn't come too easy, but what he breathes is her scent, and he sure as hell does not mind that.

" _L-linklililii_ -!"

Heh. The only time she says his name is when she's screaming it, but damn if he didn't adore her by now. And he'd tell her, too, except she swings her thighs away and breathes into his ear, erratic and winded and desperate for words.

"I should not have done that," she hisses, and he can't tell if she's angrier at herself or him, "You're hurt, and I just let myself—"

"Stay, for a few hours," Link interrupts, shifting a little. He's got needs of his own, but they can wait. She'll always come back. "Just rest here awhile. You don't have to show me your face. I'll never ask to see it, if you want to hide it. I like you…like you are."

He can almost feel her surrender and it's he's amazed at how easily those words make her come undone. She settles beside him, stretched like a feline, a shadow of a presence in his half-burned bed. Lazy lids slide down and they're asleep- not in each other's arms but close enough. Oh, how close enough indeed.

In the morning, when sunbeams peek through, she is gone. But his tunic is folded neatly, his boots set on the floor. A bottle of potion sits upon the nightstand, right within his reach.

"She had that the whole time," he mutters with a smile, uncorking the bottle, head falling back onto his pillow. It smells like her, of sugar and cinnamon, and he thinks he'll rest a bit longer for now.


	5. Twitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't flirt with the farmgirl when your girlfriend is a fully-trained Sheikah assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's pretty hot and heavy.

Sparks flew as Sheik ran the whetstone over the sharp end of her blade. Link moaned pitifully and hissed through his teeth, struggling against the impossibly snug ropes that bound him to the chair.

“ _C’mon_ , Sheik, I said I was sorry.”

Sheik just shrugged. It was funny, really; absolutely _hysterical_ that the temperamental, twitch-bodied Hero of Time would anger a fully trained Sheikah assassin. One who also happened to be his sometimes-lover, who gave him some sort of fleeting companionship throughout his ordeal. Save for Navi, but the glorified fruit-fly sure as hell wasn’t _sleeping_ with him.

And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she’d come to need the connection almost as much as he. Their first time had been strange and desperate, and maybe they weren’t exactly a normal couple (he still had no idea what she looked like…….among other things), maybe they were driven together by loneliness and shared fear, then pulled apart for weeks or months, but it worked. Goddesses only knew how, but it did.

So it was natural for teasing to come into the picture. Of course, her version of teasing was much different than his, and when coupled with anger the results were quite…uh, _amusing_.

She slowly put down the whetstone and silently paced toward him, putting one foot in front of the other, a few bindings hanging from her swishing hips. She thought about talking dirty- it’d probably make his dick twitch right off of his body- but decided to let her actions speak instead.

She sat lightly on his lap, perching herself on one bare thigh, and ran the knife over his cheekbone. He stilled, perfectly aware that if he moved even a millimeter, he’d have one hell of a gnash and absolutely no way to staunch the blood. She moved it across his face and nicked his lip, right at his cupid’s bow. He didn’t flinch at that, either. Maybe it was high pain tolerance. More likely, it was because the blade was so sharp he didn’t actually feel it. When he tasted the blood, his eyes grew huge and rather terrified, and she knew.

He was at her sweet, sweet mercy.

She pulled the blade down further, watching the tiny trickle of red drip its way down his neck. She moved her other hand to his oiled, very hard shaft and gave it a long, leisurely pull.

“Who would have thought-” All right, so she couldn’t resist a little talk to such a pure, angelic face, who cared? “-that the brave, courageous hero would like being tied up?”

“I do _not_ like it,” he retorted tightly. Sheik merely shrugged and tensed her hand around him, trying not to grin when an involuntary groan rumbled up through his throat, vibrating against the knife in her clean palm. The blade bit into his skin just slightly, shearing a little skin but not enough to bleed.

“Your cock disagrees with you,” she said silkily, pulling her cowl down but hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He grated again when she flicked the knife away, sucking the sensitive mark. A tanned leg stretched lazily across his lap, hip rolling with the sideways motion, and pressed to his twitching erection. When she bit, he _howled_.

“It says that you like this _very_ much…” She placed the knife down, dropped off his thigh, and brought her mouth down to his length.

The second her lips parted to take him in, he was twitching again, trying to push the chair forward. Sheik bobbed her head up and down quickly, keeping her eyes down and her head bowed so he couldn’t see her features. She listened and paid close attention to his rhythms, each quickened breath and throaty grumble, until she could practically feel his orgasm pooling behind his hips. Excitement shot straight from her mouth down to her groin and she sucked a few more times on his tip, tasting the salt of his arousal, savoring the smoothness of his skin under her swirling tongue and how very _hard_ she’d made him…..

…..and reared her head back right before that final release.

He actually _screamed_ this time.

“That is the _third_ time, Sheik, I said I was sorry!” His cheeks were inflamed and sweat was dripping down his forehead. She pulled her cowl back up and almost _giggled_ at the twitching pulse in his neck, right below the bruise she’d given him. A tanned hand can to rest on his chest and she was quite proud of how fast his heart was beating.

He begged through thick blonde eyelashes and glared so _fiercely_ , she almost forgot herself and fucked him right there.

 _What had he done again?_ She wondered as her hand drifted down to her pussy and parted the golden curls, a finger slithering over her clit and making her toes curl.

“I’ll _never_ flirt with Malon ever again, I promise-”

_Oh. That._

Well, since he was so kind to remind her…..

“Stay just like this,” she said slowly, spreading herself open across his lap, not six inches away from his twitching cock. The knife pressed to the crease of his thigh- not enough to break the skin but just enough to give a little bite. Her forearm was tensed and immobile; she could have held it like this for hours. She scraped it along the stray fuzzes of light hair and lidded crimson eyes watched him tighten to perfect stillness, each of his shallow breaths making her so very wet.

“Be a good hero and don’t move an inch,” she purred as she bit her lip, letting her other hand slide below her waist, “and maybe I’ll get you off next time.”

Some might think he was scared, and wanting nothing more than to be far away from this crazy Sheikah. But judging from the redness flushing his cheeks and just how swollen he was as she rubbed until she twitched, Sheik could only agree with half of that statement. On the sixth time, she gave him the gift of swallowing.


	6. Wishes

Slender bronzed fingers moved smoothly across the cords, calluses and bandages be damned, and she didn't have to look down to play her song. Sheik knew the strings by heart, and wondered if wherever he was, he'd hear, or if he'd even want to listen. Last time he listened, he'd killed a friend, and almost wound up dead. But he did it for her—well, _Zelda_ , anyway. But Sheik knew, deep within the songs they played, that he'd do it all again. So would she. Their duets were always beautiful, even when they lied.

And when his thick fingers, twisted with muscles down to the nail, would move across that little blue flute, she couldn't help but wonder if he truly liked the instrument. He seemed to prefer the winds to the brass, but she could almost imagine him playing the baritone with those full lips, that lovely embouchure, far more suited to make mournful low tones creep through the sweet, black dark. Instead, he played his ocarina, light and lilting, so much like that lapis-eyed girl in a bright pink bonnet, the girl who once had been his friend, who had given him a new song to play. The girl that existed no longer and might never exist again.

When Zelda was a child, she had a wishing jar, which sparkled when the light hit it just right. Impa placed it on the mantle and every night, the tiny plump-cheeked princess would write her wishes in elegant purple ink, and drop them in the bowl. Her nursemaid would pluck one out while she slept and the next day, it might come true, from flowers planted in the rich earth to a new leather-bound book. Until one day she wished to 'Help Link to save Hryule.' Impa did not make that wish come true, letting it sink to the bottom of the other papers and staring pointedly out the window. What else was she to do? It wasn't her duty to bear, much as she would have taken up the mantle. That yoke was weighed for another shadow and Zelda learned to be careful with her wants.

Sheik's wishes were not paper, but plucked across the lyre, bell-glass notes shattering through the silence of the night. Stars twinkled, and she was sure that they were closer to her than Link, even as they cursedly led her Hero into the depths of hell for her, just for her— well, _Zelda_ , anyway. And though she didn't have to, Sheik looked down, watched her tanned fingers dance, and realized she hadn't seen her own skin in seven years.

Her fingers changed tact to a different tune, a sharper, sadder song that Link would have never recognized. The notes plucked through the air, fast and quick, until they were so fast and so quick they sounded less like music and more like buzzing wings. Sheik nearly threw her lyre out of the tree, thinking to the last time they met.

* * *

 

_She'd shown up at night, as usual, to see how he was faring. He'd killed the dragon and saved the mountain, and the Gorons were all too happy to accommodate him while he recovered. But his wounds were gone after this last month (potions healing those on the surface, fairies healing the deep bruises and burns within), and Zora's Domain wasn't going to thaw itself._

_Sheik reminded him of this, doing her damnest not to glower above as he curled further into his huge velvet chair._

_"How many more friends will I have to kill, Sheik?" he hissed when she prodded again, a bit too deeply, glaring up defiantly with those burning blue eyes._

_"Hopefully none, Hero. All that remain are monsters—"_

_"You said Volvagia was a monster. He wasn't, I know he wasn't, he had goodness in his heart still and I killed him, Sheik— I still have his blood on my clothes." He looked so childlike, so devastated; Sheik could not help but extend a hesitant hand, running a taped thumb from forehead down to chin._

_"I believe you."_

_He blinked in owlish disbelief._

_"Yes, I believe you. I also believe that Ganondorf twisted him, and I believe his slaughter was justified." Link made a strangled noise of protest and Sheik tipped his head up, staring straight into his eyes. She let him see the crimson of her own, let them burn wide open, as brightly as his. "But I believe that he was good. I believe that he cared for you. If he hadn't cared, he would not have remembered. He did not die a monster. You gave him something more, all those years ago."_

_Pause._

_"You gave all of us something more, all those years ago."_

_A strangled sob broke from Link and Sheik leaned forward. Arms encircled him as his forehead tilted down and pressed into her belly. She sat and pulled him to her lap, like a mother and child, letting his tears spill onto her clothes. As she rocked him back and forth, she wondered if anyone ever held him like this before._

_"I'm so sorry," she whispered later, long after he'd fallen asleep in her arms. They were so warm, tucked up into the other, snuggled together under thick blankets. "I love you."_

_He responded with a light snore against her breast._

* * *

 

Something sparkling and blue flitted in front of her closed lids and Sheik tried to pretend she wasn't crying. Her fingers had long quit moving across the strings and now, she wept to herself, perched too high in a tree where no one could find her.

"Sheik?!"

Oh, no.

Except Link, and his damnable fairy, did find her. For there he was, standing below, looking up with those deep, deep eyes that cut through all the branches and leaves. Navi landed lightly on her head and Sheik berated herself for letting him sneak up on her (for once).

"I was looking for you! One of the Gorons said you were in the city, and I heard you when you started playing that last song…what was it? It was so sad and angry."

Not a song you need to know, she almost snapped, but stared down with a burning gaze instead. He returned it, forever unfazed by her glaring.

He looked good, from what she could see. Scars had healed over, bruises were mostly gone, and he was standing upright again. It'd taken nearly three solid months of healing. One for his body, the other two…. _well, heroes have wishes too_ , Sheik thought, and another sob caught in her throat.

He began to climb the tree, babbling on. Panic rose through her chest and came out as a muffled moan.

"The Gorons want to hold a celebration, but I said only if you would come— are you crying?" he asked incredulously, pressing his hand to her temple once he reached eye-level, warm palm making her cheek grow hotter.

"Sheik, why are you crying? Are you okay? Did something happen?" Navi bobbed wildly in worry. The little sprite was annoying but gods, when something Link cared about was hurting, she got upset. "Why are you hidden up here in a damned tree?"

"Because I can't go. I can't stay. I lost my wishes in the jar," she sputtered, and Link pulled her in reflexively, so tight. He didn't question her nonsensical jabbering. Tanned fingers clutched red tunic, while he stroked along her bandage cap, loosening a few strands of tightly-coiled flaxen hair.

"We'll find your wishes," he soothed, leaning back as she stretched into his arms. "If I know anything about you, I know they aren't too far away."

"You know nothing about me," she whispered, but she knew it was a lie.

Carefully, he shifted behind her, and held her. The chill of the wind ripped through both of them but neither said a word. And after a few moments, he gently placed her lyre back into her hands, before plucking his ocarina from the satchel on his waist.

"Let's play something. It'll make you feel better."

"I—"

"C'mon, Sheik. Our duets are always beautiful."

Yes. Yes, they are.

Sheik hesitantly moved her fingers into place, and began to play. And slender bronzed fingers moved across the cords, calluses and bandages be damned, as they sang their wishes deep into the night.


	7. Wind, Var. 1

She wanted to tell him he was beautiful.

When the stale air of the Temple of Time suddenly buzzed, when the tiger-orange sun striped through the black clouds blotting the sky, when he descended like a god on a blue column of swaying light, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to rip off her mask and strip the enchantments away and throw herself at his feet, begging for forgiveness. When he was green and golden and right there in front of her, so gloriously alive and the foretold bearer of that legendary blade, she wanted to tell him. It was the most enthralling moment of her life, that odd hanging second where she first witnessed the birth of the Hero of Time, swinging from his Sacred Realm womb to her aching clock-tuned arms. He turned the war to her favor, but turned so much more within her soul.

Her heart hammered against her chest. Her stomach twisted into a billion knots. And she _knew_.

She didn't tell him.

When stench bloomed so thickly over Castle Town and he cut his path through Redeads and no stars shone from the suffocating sky, she followed him. She shadowed him and was so entranced by every motion, she nearly got herself killed. He destroyed seven years of Sheikah training and an entirely _lifetime_ of royal stoicism simply by the way he moved.

She stopped and stared regardless, too enraptured by hope to tear her eyes away.

She followed him from afar, protected him. She circled him and cut down so many Stalfos, so many monsters in the night that awoke thirsting for his blood. One day soon, he would grow skilled, but for now he was new and gangling. He'd learn—she believed it with a ferocity she long thought dead—but he needed help. She'd kill herself if it saved him.

When he called for her the first time, she was there. He was sleeping and didn't realize he was screaming; already haunted by nightmares he had yet to live. She dropped from the shadows and stroked his hair until he rested easy once more. The air was chilly but he was _warm_ ; her fingers burned until they nearly boiled off her hands, her hot, sporadic breath puffing from her lungs. His fairy hovered at eye-level, flitted to Sheik's shoulder and burrowed in the wrappings, tiny dots of enchanted dust sparkling in her wake. They sat in profundity for quite some time, quiet and glowing under the bombazine sky.

The next morning, she watched him rise. And so she found her purpose, so began her vocation, to come when he called for her. He'd never know the eye with which she watched, the feet on which she followed, silent and padded with concern.

 _Did something happen in the night?_ he asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

 _Only a shadow on the wind_ , the fairy replied. Sheik did not mind her answer. But how she wanted so much more.


	8. Fortress

It started simply enough. Earlier torrential rainfall had blown away the awning on Impa's house, soaking the firewood and rendering it useless. Blankets provided some warmth but Sheik and Link had to cover themselves completely, throwing them over their heads; it was under those covers the idea was born.

Much to Link's surprise, Sheik seemed enthused, even running up the stairs to find more blankets. Beds were stripped of sheet and quilt, even decorative sham and pillowcase. Link scaled the windows to pull down the heavy curtains, as Sheik flipped chairs and dragged the dining room table, all to serve as the anchors. Heavy books and Sheik's whip cords kept everything in place and even Navi could admit—the massive blanket fortress was a spectacular sight to behold.

And now, Sheik was laughing so hard, she had to clutch her stomach to breathe. Link's fingers exploited the ticklish spot behind her knees and left her writhing and red-faced on the floor. She pounced up and pinned him mercilessly, fingers seeking his own sensitive skin, reducing him to little more than a tearful, tortured, tickled mess.

For many moments, they crawled and shoved about, thick blankets blocking out the light so well, Sheik felt comfortable enough to drop her mask. And once she did, the atmosphere changed.

" _Kiss me_ ," she breathed over and over, and again and again Link obliged. He'd kiss her until their lips and bodies swelled with blood, and Navi (perched on the bookshelf and quite warm in her little _uncorked_ bottle) would shrilly remind them that someone else was in the room, that she didn't mind kisses but she'd make them regret it if they got too naughty. Neither Hylian nor Sheikah could say exactly how such a small creature would make them regret it, but they respected her, pulling back and keeping hands in chaste places…for a few minutes, anyway, until Navi would yell in exasperation once again.

After she trilled so loudly it made their ears ring, Link peeked out.

"You aren't even in here! How do you know we're doing anything?" he asked irritably, and the fairy scoffed.

"When the children are too quiet, that's when I know something is wrong." She fluttered from her bottle and flicked his nose with her wing. "You have hickeys all over your neck and it's gross."

"You should see her neck!"

"HEY!" Sheik called from under the blankets, and Link grinned.

"What!? It's true! I bet you're covered!"

" _Just get back under here_ …and we'll be good, Navi. I promise!"

And so they kissed and romped and rolled until they were so warm, it seemed the world could never be cold again. Eventually, when things settled down and Navi finally guessed the password (peahat), they let her into their blanket-nest. Sheik pulled her mask back up, too worried about the light from the fairy's wings, and it made her shed a tear, quiet and dripping and soaking into the cloth. But when Link saw, he wrapped her up and told her she was beautiful just like that, so she let it fade away. His hands brushed through her hair and Navi danced on her fingers, bouncing from tip-to-tip and giggling with a chime, and in that moment, all three would agree. It was warm and right and good; and there they fell asleep.

Until Impa came home, anyway, and made them put it all back. But they didn't mind.


	9. drum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She pulls on the side she loves and knows he is running to the same place as her, always.

Sheik pushes her horse further and whispers into the fuzz of its ear as soothingly as she can manage. A second thrum of black pulses in her chest like a dark-deep drum and she knows exactly what it means. Her lyre will be useless in such thick magic. She is four hours off no matter how fast she flies and _Kakariko is defenseless_ ; the thought just keeps pounding and pounding until she’s nearly screaming, but she keeps it down, like her mentor taught her to do, pushing down the darkness as she pushes her horse forward. It burns in her blood, a blue and violet, a rot and a hate, all of her history is there, bubbling and boiling and burning through her and it almost makes sense, really– the sins of her predecessors, the goddesses and queens, all spilling out onto her people now. And _him_ –

He would live, probably, if he arrived before her – but he might not, and the thought made her want to die, even if it were just as important that she lived–in (the cruelest interpretations of) the prophecy. And more than that she hates this stupid fucking cycle and he does not deserve to pay for what her blood decided long ago. She is sometimes convinced her biggest mistake was not telling him to leave once he woke.

These thoughts were useless. He’d chosen already–not knowing its true weight, but by the goddesses, he had chosen. So had she.

So she closes her eyes and digs, claws through herself until she manages to find a desert she once knew, the seam of sky and sand perfectly uninterrupted. She wraps one hand around the image and feels it, the golden ribbon that ties her to evil but also green, pulls on the side she loves and knows he is running to the same place as her, always.

The fear still sits with her but does not hold her by the throat as much. Silent. Still she pushes.


	10. absence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you follow me on tumblr you've seen most of these before; I'm slowly working on a) updating old fic and b) cross-posting chapters from tumblr onto here. alas, i am a very busy inle.

These absences are the worst because they make Sheik think of what they will become. She doesn’t think of her own set future but she thinks of  _his_ , of what he’ll be after all this is done.  He’ll never be a king, she thinks with a frown, he just isn’t made for that. He could be knighted, but knighthood seems too far below everything he’s done already. Perhaps castle-life isn’t right for him at all.

He’d make a good blacksmith, maybe—he knows enough of swords to perhaps take up the skill. Or an arrow carver, with his own shooting range; or a rancher, and he’d bring milk to the Castle every week, just so he could see her. Maybe he’d be a musician, he’s got enough talent in his hands and lips, and she’d go to every concert.

“You’ll be my favorite one,” she says softly to the night, as crickets rasp and a frog croaks in agreement.

She’s never held a hand like his, calloused and worn, yet soft and loving. It fits perfectly into her own slim fingers, and he’s forever fiddling with the tape. And he laughs when he brings her hand to lip, kisses all ten fingertips with a gentle mouth. They always burn after, like she’s dipped them in the liquid golden sun, and she can feel it  _now_  even three days after she’s left his side.

As Sheik walks through the fields, the graveyards of the monsters he’s slayed for  _her_ —no longer for Zelda, but for  _her_ , Sheik of the Sheikah, she thinks wryly—she looks at the patches of wildflowers, lilac and yellow, swaying sweetly in the spearmint wind. She drops her cowl and presses a kiss to her fingers; they do not burn golden but she kisses them all the same, as though her lips were his, soft and kinder than she’d ever be to herself, smooth or rough, blue or red. She throws that kiss into the heavens, knowing it will find his cheek; and strums along her lyre, knowing it will find his ears wherever he may sleep.


	11. questions

The sand whips up, swirls and stings his eyes and he knows it must sting hers, too; but it was sand, only sand, he tells himself, and it’s weird how it smells metallic like this, how it tastes salty, almost like water. How his face feels hot. How he’s scared. But he’s always scared.

 Sheik stands, still and quiet, fingers over strings, and he breaks their gaze first, and for a long time he told himself he liked her eyes because they were red and beautiful and a little weird but it was something else entirely.

  _So what are we after this?_  He doesn’t ask it–he might’ve, back when he was a forest kid, but he isn’t much of that anymore, not much of much, really, except tired and possibly hopelessly in love. His brain flashes to those nights together, her mouth, how it smiled a little lopsided, the curved scar on her left hip, the roughness of her bandages; how after all these places he did truthfully think the starry sky prettiest when framed by lost trees, because he’d shown her.

“Where will you be?”

 Sheik probably smiles. The yellow sun melts to the west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by vaegtersang


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